The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [90]
Although there was no solid evidence, I felt certain that this unknown man was an agent of Jonas Lachtmann. I might fall under his gaze next, I knew, but before I could weigh on the perils of further involvement, Abigail leaned forward. “Ephraim, could you please take me home?”
She was silent on the ride to Rittenhouse Square, and I knew better than to intrude. I helped her down from the carriage and walked with her to her door. “I’m sorry the evening turned out so disastrously,” I said.
She forced an ephemeral smile. “I’d like you to come in,” she said softly. “There is something I want you to see.”
She led me quietly through the foyer to a set of back stairs. Holding my hand, she led me to the second floor, then down a hall, past a number of closed doors to a narrow staircase at the far end.
She mounted the first step, still holding my hand, and then stopped and turned about. Smiling softly once more, she bent and kissed me lightly, her lips brushing fleetingly across mine. Our eyes held for a moment before she turned to lead me up the curving staircase.
At the top was a small hall, with three doors. Abigail reached into her bag, withdrew a key, and then walked to the far door and turned the lock. The door opened onto a dark room, and she beckoned for me to enter. Only after I had done so did she turn the switch on the wall to engage the electric light. She closed the door behind us.
This was her studio. Not as expansive as Eakins’, perhaps, but still quite large. There were a number of canvases in the room in various states of completion, all in the same powerful, disturbing style as her portrait of Rebecca Lachtmann. An easel in the middle of the room evidently held the painting that she was working on, but a sheet was draped over it and I could not discern the subject.
Without speaking, Abigail gestured for me to stand in front of the easel. She stepped to the side, grasped the sheet, and pulled it off.
The portrait was of me.
It was unfinished, some of the borders still simple sketch lines, but she had done substantial work on the face. I stared at myself in utter fascination. As in her portrait of Rebecca, Abigail had bent reality just enough to project a subjective image while preserving instant identification of the subject, and once again utilized the bold, flat swatches of color that forced one’s gaze to the eyes of the subject on the canvas.
Those eyes—my eyes—had been rendered a powerful chestnut—like Eakins’—more arresting, I thought, than in life, and gave off intelligence, strength, and resolve. The portrait had a kinetic quality, but with an overall impression of sensuality, the very combination of traits that I envied in Eakins.
Could this be the way she saw me? Or perhaps it was the way she wished to see me. I stared at the painting for some moments.
“Do you like it?” she whispered.
“It is the most remarkable thing that has ever happened to me,” I replied honestly. “I want to be the man in the portrait rather than myself.”
“You are the man in the portrait,” she said. “Come with me.” She led me to a door at the far end of the studio. “Sometimes when I’m painting, I don’t leave here for days. My meals are left outside.” We had reached the door. Abigail pushed down on the handle. “I had Father fix a place for me to sleep.” She swung open the door to reveal a small bedroom. “It’s completely removed from anyplace else in the house,” she said, leading me inside.
Two hours later, we lay in her bed and I felt the deepest and most profound sense of well-being I had ever known. Love-making with Abigail had been a transcendent experience, not like the mere animal release with Wanda. I wanted to stroke her skin, smell her hair, feel the warmth of her against me, blend our bodies and our souls together for eternity. For the first time, I understood the true nature of addiction—I would risk anything not to lose these sensations.
She reached over and touched